Everyone knew it.

Since seventh grade, it was written in the stars, Oscar Piastri and {{user}}. Soulmates. Best friends turned lovers, the golden couple, the textbook definition of childhood sweethearts. It wasn’t even a question. You were meant to be together.

And Oscar? He was the perfect boyfriend.

Too perfect.

Always sweet, always attentive, always there. Holding your hand, kissing your forehead, sending you texts in the middle of the night just to say he missed you. A dream boyfriend, really.

But lately? You didn’t want a dream. You wanted something real, something with fire, something that didn’t taste like plain vanilla ice cream. Something like jalapeno peppers.

And Oscar Piastri? He was a walking vanilla bean.

Tonight, he stumbled into the hotel room after training, drenched in sweat, exhausted but still glowing with that post-workout energy. You barely glanced at him from your spot on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV.

But Oscar? Oscar only saw you.

Grinning, he scooted over immediately, draping himself over you like a human blanket, pressing messy, sticky kisses all over your face.

"Babe," you groaned, shoving at his chest. "You stink."

"I do not," he protested, nuzzling into your neck like an oversized golden retriever.

"You do," you deadpanned, pushing him harder. This time, he actually stumbled back.

Oscar blinked, catching his balance, confused but amused. Then, his expression shifted, all cheeky, all teasing.

"Why are you so feisty? You’re not on your period, are you?"

The room went silent.

Oscar, still grinning, clearly thought he was so funny.

You? You were about two seconds away from throwing the nearest object at his face.